I happened across an orphaned scene
of perhaps 300 words I’d written some months ago—a rather acrimonious exchange
between Sub-Commander T’Laris and Captain Mantovanni. I’d always liked the
little spat, but until four days ago had no idea where to put it.
I’m pleased to say it’s found a home,
right here.
“Old Wounds”
By Joseph Manno
“Any citizen
who desires to be a soldier of genuine quality must understand and accept the
necessity, the inevitability, of shouldering onerous burdens as an inevitable consequence
of a life given over to duty and servi–”
She snapped the book shut, and
flipped it onto the seat beside her—employing little of the reverence her
instructors would have insisted such a venerable
work deserved.
Admittedly, she had more than once found solace in the Collected Oratory of Decius, but not in
the conventional manner. He was, without a doubt, the most overrated ‘great
author’ she’d ever been compelled to read, but his writings had proven to
possess at least one unlooked-for benefit.
A few paragraphs of it usually put
her to sleep.
Is it any
wonder he’s required reading? Elements know not a single person would do so
otherwise … and yet the verbose old thrai never shut up in 240 years.
She’d genuinely hoped that, for once,
a few stanzas of Decius might inexplicably accomplish
what so many said they did: Inspiration.
She should have known better; some
indignities could not simply be set aside.
They had to be borne.
Avriel T’Laris
felt—knew—this was one of them.
I shall never forgive you for this, Aktar.
She knew how the old admiral would’ve
responded had T’Laris spoken that sentiment aloud when last they’d met—with an
arched brow reminiscent of their Vulcan forebears, and an admonishment that
only fools spoke in absolutes.
Angrily, she rethought her position …
and then restated it.
“Never.”
“Ma’am?”
T’Laris flinched, abruptly drawn from
her brooding; she turned an irritated glare on the young man who’d startled
her—looking ever so concerned and solicitous …
“Are you all right?” he asked. He
emitted, practically exuded earnestness from those guileless gray eyes of his.
She restrained a mild urge to get up,
walk over to where he sat … and put them out.
“You are neither doctor nor …”
T’Laris paused, briefly searching for the word in Federation Standard. “… counselor,
Lieutenant. You are a pilot tasked with transporting me aboard the
“…and attend your station.”
He stiffened, and swiveled back to do
so, a curt, hurt “Yes, ma’am” ending
the brief exchange.
For an instant, T’Laris felt a twinge
of regret. The boy had only thought to offer his help, after all…
And if he had
been paying heed to his assigned responsibilities, she
thought, rather than casting his eyes
about like a bored schoolboy…
Another part of her added, Yes … if so, he would never have seen your
mind wandering … your own discipline flagging … or, alternately, perhaps he
simply heard you muttering defiance like some resentful adolesc–
The little craft lurched and she
grabbed at the chair’s armrests, retaining her seat—barely.
“Sorry
about that, ma’am.”
Now, of course, when a look at his
face might actually have proven interesting, he remained carefully engrossed in
his controls. Still, T’Laris could almost extrapolate a secret little smile
from the too-attentive posture he’d conveniently adopted.
And these
humans say we are underhanded.
The remaining ride was a smooth one…
…which was not to say she enjoyed it.
USS Liberty’s captain was, notably, not present in the bay to meet
T’Laris upon her arrival; she decided that
turn of fortune suited her very well. The Honor of Greeting—a dubious one, they no doubt think—had
instead been left to an officer T’Laris immediately recognized from the
personnel dossiers over which she had pored in preparation for this assignment.
Her one-person reception committee wore sciences blue and bore the rank of
commander, along with an air that, from a Romulan, might well have hinted at
mockery. Yet, on this woman, it seemed to connote something a little more
amused … or even, perhaps, self-effacing.
As she disembarked into the bay,
T’Laris momentarily misplaced the very specific phrase Starfleet employed for
such greetings, but a quick, desperate shuffle of mnemonic aids allowed her to
recall it in sufficient time to properly greet her receiver.
“Permission to come aboard,
Commander?”
An instant later, she was oddly
pleased to have remembered: Sera MacLeod’s face brightened into the kind of
smile that, even on first impression, seemed to say much about her sincerity.
One cannot
wear that expression easily, T’Laris thought, unless one wears it often.
“Granted,
Sub-Commander. Jolan tru … vet marana suvet kar.”
Caught off-guard by such a comradely
greeting and friendly face, T’Laris responded in kind with the latter—noting
the fact of it in mingled amusement and dismay—and then decided that since the
harm had already been done, continuing with the former couldn’t hurt.
“Aviet mareth suvetta kai, Sera-kam.”
Now that smile became a delighted,
delightful laugh. This time, T’Laris restrained the reflexive response, but
despite an effort, her own grin broadened further.
“Your Vulcan is excellent, Sub-Commander!” Sera enthused, gesturing the newcomer to
her side ... and more subtly, that the pilot might fall in behind.
“Goodness, your accent is better than
mine, and I’ve lived there.”
T’Laris considered for a moment, and
then decided on a layered response.
Her reaction
will tell a great deal.
“I must confess,
Commander … I detect more than a hint of brogue in yours—as if the
Sera MacLeod did not disappoint, in
any sense. She arched a brow, and her smile lost its symmetry … but became,
perhaps, even more charming for that.
“You have the advantage there, Sub-Commander.
After all, Krocton is both a Romulan province and a suburb of The Great City.”
Oh, nicely played, Commander, thought T’Laris. I am well, truly and yet pleasantly
answered. It is no wonder your Tal Shiar biographer
calls you “a woman we might well wish was Romulan.”
For a moment, she entertained the
notion that détente might just be
possible.
It proved a brief moment.
The turbolift ride—or, rather, its
destination—became the first point of dispute in local Federation/Romulan
relations.
“Deck Si–”
“Belay that.”
After a brief, awkward pause, the
Vulcan tried, “I think it best if y–”
“Commander.”
The tone left little room for debate;
and her companion’s expression, Sera abruptly realized, had become in an
instant significantly less … companionable.
“I do not require your thoughts at
this time.
“Bri–”
The until-now-silent member of their
trio took that opportunity to clear his throat—just loudly enough to obscure
the intended order.
Sera winced.
T’Laris did not. Instead, she
regarded him with a glare that, if protracted, would have raised boils.
“Your … eloquently-stated opinion is
noted, Lieutenant. Kindly refrain from expressing it again.”
The Romulan watched as his eyes
caught Sera’s; hers recommended compliance.
He wisely took the advice.
T’Laris repeated, “Bridge.”
She preceded them from the turbolift
and didn’t break stride, Sera noted, even when her young escort, forgetting—or,
more likely, not forgetting—that
Romulan hearing rivaled Vulcan, spoke again.
“She should have let us steer.”
To that, all the Vulcan could say
was, “Indeed.”
“Sub-Commander T’Laris, Captain,
reporting as ordered.”
She suffered his appraisal, willing
it to wash over but not touch her. It wasn’t quite as easy as she would have
thought, for Luciano Mantovanni possessed something of a presence; T’Laris had
to grant him that. No doubt it daunted these humans, who were by nature easily
cowed when confronted with even a semblance of real strength; but she was a
Romulan, and had for decades served with officers whose innate aura of authority
far surpassed his.
At last he spoke. She never forgot
his first words to her, enunciated as they were with clarity and care.
“Sub-Commander …
“…I don’t
ever want to see that uniform on my bridge again.”
A instant before, T'Laris had felt every eye in the room. Now the sensation abated, as the gathered officers, coincidentally, found their duties much more involving than they had just been.
For an instant, T'Laris recalled Aktar’s recommendation that she adopt a … conciliatory …
attitude, while aboard.
Never.
She gave at least equal regard to her
own reply.
“Then I recommend, Captain…
“…that you
take to avoiding the bridge.”
If it were possible for one silence
to run deeper than another, this one surpassed the last.
Sera MacLeod filled the breach … or
perhaps fell into it.
“I strongly suggest a more private
venue for the continuation of this dialogue.”
From the impertinent young
lieutenant, T’Laris heard a soft, “Damn …
and it was just about to get good, too.”
She had little doubt MacLeod had caught it as well, because she chose that
moment to gesture, rather emphatically, at what the Romulan knew served as the
captain’s private office—a bolt hole Starfleeters referred to as the ‘Ready Room.’
Very well, she
thought.
I shall gauge
his … readiness.
Sera understood that the opportunity
to prevent a disaster had almost certainly passed, and that this part of the
conversation would probably be much more about minimizing collateral damage and
fallout. Thus, she chose to speak while the respective combatants were both
drawing breath … and a bead.
“Respectfully, Sub-Commander, this is a Starfleet ship...”
She’d intended it as a preamble, but
T’Laris chose to interpret her pause as an invitation, or at least an
opportunity.
“What of it?” the Romulan countered. “According
to the agreed-upon dictates of the Officer Exchange Program, I am well within
my rights to wear this uniform. I understand that I may, if I so desire, opt for Starfleet attire as a gesture of
… respect … to my current commander.”
T’Laris paused to adopt that
insouciant fleer all Romulan officers are seemingly issued along with their
commission. Even through her Vulcan control, Sera found the expression
irritating.
As to Mantovanni’s reaction, he
remained silent, unmoving; and T’Laris didn’t know him well enough to realize
that such did not bode well—for any of them.
“Thus,” she continued, heedless,
“since I do not hold with insincere gestures, I shall not make one; and you
cannot legally order me to do so.
“Accept it.”
The woman’s voice had held authentic
relish as she said that last, but Sera’s eyes never left Mantovanni’s. Thus,
she saw precisely the moment when his own gaze came to rest on the sword
collection adorning his wall. It lingered there far too long for her taste.
Then she realized why.
One of the racks—that which usually
contained his family’s Sha’rien—lay
empty.
Sera considered possible reasons for
having removed it, and instantly narrowed them to a pair: Either he’d chosen to
deny T’Laris a look at the blade …
…or he’d feared the temptation to use
it.
And still T’Laris wasn’t done.
“I take as much pride, with more justification, in my uniform than either of you should in
those … nightclothes you’re wearing.
I am an officer in the Romulan Star Navy.”
Mantovanni, at last, gave answer.
“No.
“Right now, idiotic and appalling
though the very concept is, you’re a Starfleet officer.”
T’Laris, for a long moment, gave the
distinct impression she was going to spit.
“Starfleet,”
she sneered. “If not for our intervention during the war, there would be no Starfleet.”
Whoever thought that truth was always
beautiful had never heard it from a Romulan.
Still, it wasn’t the only truth at
hand.
“And if not for your people’s
Byzantine conniving,” he countered, “you would have intervened right after it
began … you know, that time early on when the scrap yards and graveyards hadn’t
yet lost count?
“Instead, the Praetor held up that
piece of paper he signed with the Dominion as a shield from what he knew was
required—what he knew was right. Then
the Empire slunk back behind the Neutral Zone, hoping its enemies would bleed
each other dry—leaving it free to dominate the postwar galaxy without actually
having gone to war. A typically Romulan strategy, I might add.”
Her smirk lost some of its acuity,
but didn’t entirely disappear.
“I doubt that was my government’s
‘strategy,’ Captain. You see, that
plan would be predicated on you humans actually being able to fight your own battles.”
Mantovanni arched a brow, and went
her one better—with a sneering chuckle.
“Like at Charon… or Galorndon Core?”
Sera paled.
T’Laris flushed green, and took a very purposeful step towards him—only to
stop short as their mediator leaped between them, her expression now pleading.
“Sub-Commander … having coordinated
with our quartermaster, I know you’ve brought with you a fair number of
personal effects. They’ve already been taken to your room. Tending to them, right now, would probably be best.”
T’Laris considered that for a full
five seconds. Then, she granted Sera a minute nod, spun on her heel and strode
for the door.
“I don’t
recall dismissing you.”
Mantovanni’s observation stopped her
mid-stride. She pivoted again, graceful and precise, to face him.
“It is obvious, sir, that you dismissed me long
before I ever arrived.”
And with that, she turned once more
and was gone.
T’Laris made for the turbolift,
intent on a respite of solitude, but a forbidding glare proved insufficient
deterrent: Her young pilot fell in beside as she crossed the bridge, and waited
silently once the door slid shut behind them.
His presence, though, made perfect
sense.
“You have no doubt been ordered to
keep me under surveillance.”
He lifted and then relaxed his
shoulders. She recalled her lessons in human kinesthics;
such a gesture was called a “shrug,” and usually indicated uncertainty or even
ambivalence—unless accompanied by a pained grin such as he now wore.
In that case, it constituted an
apology.
She didn’t feel very forgiving.
“And just how observant must you be,
Lieutenant?” she asked. “Are you to join me in my quarters as well?”
Amazingly, he grinned.
“Only if you invite me … and my luck’s
never been that good.”
She blinked.
This impudent
child is flirting with me.
“You have an abundance of enthusiasm, Mister–?”
“King. Brett King.”
She nodded.
“Very well
then … Mister King. Let us harness that enthusiasm … to our mutual
benefit.”
The lad seemed all for that.
Idly, T’Laris wondered how he’d feel
in a few hours.
After all, she’d exhausted far
sturdier men.
Sera had been torn between pursuing
T’Laris and remaining with Mantovanni; after a brief internal debate, she
decided it best to first deal with the devil she knew.
“Having served with you through many
crises, I must say … this is one of the very few you yourself helped create.”
Her observation touched him … but not
deeply enough.
“I think
we’re through, here, Commander.” His words themselves were sufficient
enough to convey finality; the tone seemed to imply that any attempt at
continuing the conversation might imperil their relationships—professional and
personal both.
With another man, withdrawal to allow
him time would be a viable option. But Sera knew her commander … her friend …
as few others did: He was an inveterate brooder, and his anger, so seldom seen,
was like wildfire once kindled. If she didn’t help him douse or at least
contain his fury right now, it would
grow into a conflagration.
She briefly considered options, her
matchless intellect of less use than her empathy in this rare case, and decided
on a course of action. Sera’s mind rebelled at the idea of it—for while
fighting fire with fire was often an effective tactic, sometimes it left you
with nothing more than charred landscape.
And matching this man’s intensity was
certainly beyond her.
Still, she had to try.
“You’ve known of her assignment for
over a week, now. Did you spend that time constructively?
“I wager you didn’t. I assume instead
that you contacted every admiral with
whom you have influence, alternately cajoling and demanding, in an attempt to
divert this woman elsewhere—all to no avail, it would seem, considering our
current situation.”
Most anyone else would have missed
his reaction, but Sera detected a minute flexion of the muscles in his back—as
if he were unconsciously attempting to shed the accusation … or shift the
blame.
“And the personnel dossier Starfleet
provided … did you even read it?”
His exhalation was all the answer she
needed.
Sera fully understood that her next
statement might well cause the explosion she’d been attempting to prevent; but
there was no avoiding it.
“Well … I have.”
That earned her a response—a far colder
and more perilous one than she’d anticipated.
“Starfleet Security would be
dismayed—though not at all surprised, I’m sure—at your ability to see whatever
you wish to see.”
Now he turned to face her … and she
almost flinched back.
“You’ve strayed dangerously close to the textbook definition of interfering with my
prerogatives, Commander, not to mention accessing classified files without
authorization—which, unless I’m badly mistaken, constitutes a court-martial
offense … even for a woman whose privileges and perquisites have accustomed her
to flouting the discipline of the service.”
Her mouth opened, and closed.
Then it opened again.
“I’ve never had to go this far
because you’ve never acted so
unprofessionally.”
His expression darkened. If she’d detected
a hint of ozone in the air, it wouldn’t have surprised her in the least.
Still, she pressed on.
“I am not unsympathetic to your
feelings on this matter. You know me far better than that.
“But you have little cause and even
less room to fling accusations, considering your behavior over the last
hour—for that matter, over the last week.
You’ve refused to speak about this with anyone who’s offered to listen:
Hatshepsut, Erika, T’Vaar … even Parihn. Instead,
you’ve stewed in here for the better part of six days—that is, when you weren’t
hailing and subsequently haranguing every admiral this side of Lord Nelson.”
Mantovanni shook his head, and
chuckled once, harshly… but still offered no challenge or protest.
“Please … at least read the file, and proceed from there.
“
He raised a hand for silence, and
this time left her no room to maneuver.
“Commander,” he said, “that will be all.”
In silence, she withdrew, with one
thought foremost in her mind.
I just hope
it’ll be enough.
As she headed for her next impossible
task, Sera considered all that had been said, and abruptly realized that though
Mantovanni hadn’t agreed, he hadn’t refused,
either. At least it allowed for a crumb of hope.
But if someone had asked her, just
then, to place a bet on one outcome or the other…
…she would have kept her change.
***
Brett King wiped a sweat-soaked brow
and caught his breath, hoping against hope that this time he’d satisfied her.
“Let us try
again.”
He groaned, and slumped back.
“That was our fifth ride!” Brett protested. “You must have liked that one!”
She tucked an errant lock of auburn
hair back behind a tapered ear, her composure unruffled—her gesture
calculating.
“Evidently your human women are more
easily impressed.”
T’Laris leaned towards him for
emphasis.
“And now …
“…computer, reset to original
configuration, identical parameters. Begin flight simulation in 15 seconds.”
She resettled herself in the chair.
“We shall remain here until you
provide me with a smooth trip.
Considering your … performance
… on the runabout, Lieutenant, clearly
you need the practice.”
Resigned to his fate, Brett King
again took hold of the simulator controls. This was not what he’d had in mind for an afternoon drive.
His luck hadn’t changed in the least.
Erika Benteen
had shown good sense in assigning T’Laris her residence: It couldn’t have been
any further from Mantovanni’s.
Sera MacLeod imagined that arrangement would please them both no
end.
She still had hope of preventing that
from becoming a literal appellation.
As Sera appeared around the
corridor’s arc, Brett King at first struggled for an approximation of
attention; but upon seeing that it was “only” her, sagged back against the
wall.
“You look … stressed,” she observed.
He grunted.
“Tell me
about it.”
Sera suppressed a smile, and said,
“May I presume our exec is present?”
He rolled his eyes.
“No, I’m implementing that new ‘guard
the empty room’ policy.”
Now she did smile.
“Well … no longer. You may go.”
That took a
moment to register, but when it did, King’s eyes widened, and his jaw dropped.
“Uh … Sera … I don’t think that’s
such a good idea. The captain made it pretty clear that I’m supposed t–”
“Brett.” Her tone
remained gentle, but no less emphatic for that. “You’re dismissed.”
He grimaced, and sighed.
“Hoo-kay. Guess I’ll go look at gravestones...
“…for both of us.”
Sera couldn’t carry a tune, but she could
recognize one readily enough: As he strolled away, Brett was whistling “Taps.”
Oh, you’re
hilarious—as Hatshepsut would say, “one of a
barrelful.”
She was committed, now … or might as
well be. A single, short pressure on the quarters’ door chime inspired a sharp “Enter” from within.
Though “once more unto the breach”
was more than apropos, Sera found herself settling on a very different quote.
“A plague,” she thought,
“on both your houses.”
And with that, she entered house
number two.
T’Laris had, for some moments,
debated on a design motif for her new quarters. She was of two minds on the
matter: Part of her wished to convey something of
She had not yet decided, though, if
the desire constituted weakness … or even, should that prove so, whether it was
one with which she could live.
Another alternative loomed: Total
immersion.
The very concept—let alone actually implementing it—offended her.
She remembered a passage from t’Varian’s epic invocation, The Adelhaihn—which, unlike Decius’ pedantic yammerings,
often did serve to inspire her.
She said the words aloud, her voice
gaining strength with each moment:
“I
am betrayed into the hands of my enemies …
but
I am not alone, for the Elements are my companions.
They
warm me, and quench my thirst;
they give me ground
on which to stand, and are my very breath.
“Let
me not despair, for they are with me, the Four-that-are-One,
and
deliver unto me that which I requi–”
The door chime sounded…
…and she almost screamed.
Shall I not
be granted a moment’s respite, even to pray?!
She could almost hear Aktar wandering the corridors of her mind, gently urging, “Control, child … restraint.”
Neither would
be required, old man, she thought,
if you had not sent me here!
“Enter!” she snapped.
Thus it was that when her guest did
as bidden, she found T’Laris standing amidst her possessions—none of which had
been unpacked.
Without preamble, Sera said, “I offer
you my assistance.”
T’Laris knew she wasn’t referring to
decoration, but nevertheless remained silent, both to gauge the Vulcan’s actual
intent … and because she had no idea how to respond.
Her guest, seemingly, never had that
problem.
“I do not wish to lose either of
you—my longtime friend … or the one I have newly found.”
Taken aback, T’Laris chuckled … but
the sound wasn’t at all cheery.
“You are not what I would have
thought, Commander Sera MacLeod. How lightly
you have given your friendship.”
The Vulcan arched a brow, but that
elfin smile faded not a bit.
“To which instance are you
referring?”
T’Laris bent to open one of her
travel bags, coincidentally and conveniently avoiding that too-open,
all-too-inquisitive gaze.
“You know nothing of me,” she asserted.
“Indeed?” Sera replied. “Let us test
that assumption, extrapolating from the personnel dossier you no doubt suspect
I have read.
“With your
permission?”
At T’Laris’ wary nod, she proceeded.
“You remain a sub-commander, though
clearly your qualifications and term of service merit you at least a ship, and
more likely a warbird, of your own. It is logical to
assume that you have accumulated numerous and powerful enemies who have acted
to prevent your ascension.”
“Or perhaps I simply chose the wrong
friends.”
“Perhaps,” conceded Sera. “If so,
according to you it is a trait we share.”
T’Laris arched a brow—in part, an
acknowledgment of the counterstroke—and gestured for her guest to continue.
“You have been assigned—or, more
appropriately, consigned—to duty
aboard a Federation starship. It seems unlikely that such a posting will
contribute to your subsequent upward mobility in the Romulan Fleet. In point of
fact, I would presume much the opposite.”
A cold finger touched the base of her
spine; T’Laris suddenly had much less appreciation for the direction in which
the conversation had turned.
“Moreover, of all the vessels to
which you might have been posted, you find yourself aboard
The delicate shakal figurine T’Laris had
intended for her coffee table instead slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers,
and shattered at her feet.
“Tread
with care, Vulcan,” she growled. “I
am not a pacifist.”
“Recommendation noted,” Sera replied.
“May I continue?”
Now T’Laris laughed, astonished at
the woman’s gall … and not a little impressed with her courage: If she wished
Sera dead, and chose to make it so, all that brilliance would hardly suffice to
prevent exactly that.
Is that how far you have fallen, Avriel? Now you threaten a woman possessing no means of
defense?
Perhaps it is
well that your father did not live to see the day.
Seeing that m’nhei’sahe allowed no other
recourse, she answered, “By all
means, Commander. Further indulge your penchant for analysis at my expense.”
“Very well.
“Your anger at the captain, while
understandable from an emotional perspective, is misplaced when viewed in light
of logic and reason. You were a little girl who lost a father you barely knew
to a man defending his homeland against an ill-conceived act of aggression.”
“You are the
aggressors, and were then, as well!” she countered. “You wage economic warfare
with more ruthlessness and efficiency than Orions or Ferengi
ever achieved, and then cry ‘foul’
when the Empire responds with military force! The Federation is–”
“–by no means blameless,” Sera finished. “On that we are agreed. I am
not, however, interested in debating either military history or the
socio-political situation—as you and the captain so obviously are. While I do,
indeed, have an agenda, it is neither to achieve final victory in a battle that
ended eight decades ago, nor to condemn inappropriately.”
T’Laris drew breath to speak, but
this time Sera allowed her no opening.
“He watched as
men and women with whom he’d suffered and struggled were blasted from
existence.”
She felt her lip curl.
“Oh, I bleed for his loss. They, at least, were casualties of war,
Commander MacLeod.”
“But despite your viewpoint on
Federation fiscal policy, ‘war’ had not been declared,” Sera answered. “Surely
you do not condone such behavior?”
“That of a craven and trickster, you
mean? No, I do not. Your captain and … friend,”
she sneered, “may be clever, but that makes him no less a coward. You do not ram a still-fighting ship with a
derelict once you have conceded the day. My father died at the hands of a man who’d already signaled his surrender by
jettisoning escape pods. Such action is deplorable.”
T’Laris now delivered her verdict …
one she’d rendered long ago.
“It is
unforgivable.”
Sera frowned.
“I grieve with thee, Sub-Commander,
but … your conclusion is illogical, in light of the fact that the remaining
Romulan ships had tor–”
Between one instant and the next, her
expression changed.
“Of course,” she
whispered. “You don’t know. They never told you.”
Again the Vulcan donned that
self-chiding grin, and shook her head.
“No wonder he says I’m always intelligent, but sometimes not very smart.”
She strode to the room’s computer
console, activated it, and entered a series of commands. An instant later, the
requested data appeared.
“No doubt you’ve analyzed numerous
Romulan accounts of the engagement. I would imagine you’ve read everything
about it you could countless times. One more perspective won’t hurt.” She
seemed to reflect on that for a few seconds, and then amended her statement.
“I stand corrected. No doubt it will hurt…
“…but truth
usually does.”
After Sera had departed, T’Laris
regarded the screen … but for some unfathomable reason, did not at first
approach it. Instead, she busied herself with everything … anything … else.
She arranged her room—in a
predominantly Romulan style, of course.
She showered and redressed—in a Romulan
uniform, of course.
She had supper; or, more accurately,
she stirred her plomeek
for the better part of an hour, twice reheating the bowl … and then returned it
for recycling, essentially uneaten.
She took Sendak’s
Flight from Vulcan off her bookcase,
opened to a favorite chapter … and found herself unable to focus upon it.
She requested a tankard of ale from
the replicator, and found Federation spirits as insipid as … well, Federation
spirit.
She even contemplated opening a
bottle of kalivah.
She had brought only four, though; and since it already seemed as if every drop
of it might well prove necessary to her continued well-being, she didn’t want
to squander it prematurely.
Still, in all, it had been a trying
day.
And all the while, that Elements-damned
monitor beckoned.
Inevitably, its patience proved
greater than her forbearance: Accompanied by one of her precious decanters, she
sat, poured herself a drink, and began to read—her suspicions entirely aroused,
her skepticism fully engaged … ready to dismiss this version of events as
carefully-crafted propaganda.
All seemed in order, though. The
chronicle, while somewhat dry for her admittedly exacting taste, proved both
scholarly and informative. Allowing for the difference in perspective and language,
it coincided almost exactly with the very few she had read. As a matter of
fact, certain turns of phrase led her to believe that she had read this one, or at least large tracts of it—that it had been
acquired by the Tal Shiar,
examined for factuality, and after translation released to certain elements of
Star Command for its educational purposes.
Near its end, she reached a
particular passage, and read through it.
A full minute later, just after she’d
finished the entire narrative, that specific sentence, and what it had
said—what it had meant—finally, fully
registered.
Unable at first to accept the
permutations, T’Laris scrolled back, and did so again, this time reading aloud.
“Their
commanders perhaps infuriated beyond reason and measure at
Her body sagged. Her spirit sank.
It’s a lie.
It must be.
As if in response, a dull ache formed
in the pit of her stomach—one that had nothing to do with the kalivah. She had
felt it twice before: Once, when a much younger, then-Sub-Commander Aktar T’Deran had quietly
informed a five-year-old Avriel that her father would
not be coming home; and again, when Selvak—Selvak, for whom she still ached—with as much kindness and
gentleness as he could had told her that he loved another.
Both of those times, also, she had
thought, It’s a lie.
Sera MacLeod had been correct.
Her glass now empty, she set it
aside…
…and reached instead for the bottle.
“Sub-Commander T’Laris reporting as
ordered, Captain.”
Mantovanni once again regarded his
two officers; Sera knew that for the moment, though, she herself stood firmly
in the periphery of his interest: T’Laris held the lion’s share.
What that would portend was beyond even Sera’s ability to predict.
He said nothing at first, though,
instead requiring them both to wait on his pleasure—even as he returned
attention to one of a dozen PADDs that lay before him
on the ready-room desk.
Sera recognized it.
“I note that you’re wearing a
standard duty uniform, Sub-Commander.”
With only a tithing of the hauteur
she’d employed in their last conversation, T’Laris replied, “And the
appropriate Romulan insignia … sir.”
That last word had, to Sera ears,
lacked even the edge of contempt. It seemed almost … respectful.
His brow furrowed, and then relaxed;
it seemed to have required an effort of will.
“I see. That seems only … logical.”
Sera breathed a sigh of relief … and
an instant later, realized just how loud it had been: Both Mantovanni and
T’Laris turned baleful glares on her, and for an instant, she wilted under a
combined phaser/disruptor barrage.
She colored, cleared her throat, and
willed herself out of phase with their space/time continuum.
Fortunately, they lost interest in
her.
Mantovanni added, “Very well, then.
Commanders Benteen and MacLeod will see to your
indoctrination.”
“Never.”
Oh, God.
Sera gasped, and cringed.
When she examined the other two,
though, the Vulcan nearly rubbed her eyes: Each was wearing the barest hint of something which could well have been
used to illustrate the phrase “predatory grin.”
Mantovanni punctuated his next
statement by first deactivating the PADD.
“Perhaps I misspoke myself,
Sub-Commander. They will assist with
your … familiarization.”
Now T’Laris’ became a full-fledged
smile—not entirely pleasant, but at least amused.
“Understood,
sir. Permission to assume my station?”
“Granted.”
Pivoting smoothly, she made an
unhurried but efficient exit. Sera, attempting to
unobtrusively follow in her wake, wasn’t quite so lucky.
“Commander, please remain a moment.”
She returned to her position before
his desk—her posture now, though, far
more relaxed than it had been. Sera might not have forged an alliance, but an
armistice was better than nothing … and a lot
better than naked steel or open war.
He continued their previous
conversation from where they’d left it.
“Either Admiral Sih’taar
or T’Kara sent
you T’Laris’ dossier.”
It wasn’t a question.
Sera nodded.
“The latter,
actually. She anticipated that you might well refuse to read it. It may
have been nearly a century ago, but the woman was your X-O for two years,
His eyes narrowed … but again, he
issued no rebuttal.
“Was there anything else, sir?” she
asked.
“No. You’re dismissed.”
“Never.”
That earned her an arched brow.
She grinned impishly… and, after a
moment, he granted her the minutest of smiles in return.
“Perhaps I … misspoke myself,
Commander. I meant to say, ‘Carry on.’”
“Understood,
sir.”
She neared the door, but glanced
back.
“
“…well, one
person removed.”
Epilogue
One year
later:
T’Laris looked down at herself, and
looked doubtful.
“You are certain,” she inquired, “that this does not trouble you, Cicero?”
He asked in return, “Would I have
bothered informing you of the policy change if it did?”
She considered that.
“I suppose not. I must confess,
though, that having grown somewhat accustomed to Starfleet attire–”
He interjected a drolly observed, “I
believe, Sub-Commander, that the term you employed was
‘nightclothes.’”
She shot him a glare that had lost
none of its acuity; he deflected it as so often he did, with an arched brow.
Then, she came full circle—literally.
Mantovanni had seen her pivot or
perform an about face on more than one occasion. This, though, was something
like a pirouette—perhaps the most whimsical and unselfconsciously feminine
gesture he’d seen from T’Laris in the year they had served together.
Strangely enough, it became her,
though, and was not at all unwelcome.
“What do you think of it?”
“It” was, of course, T’Laris’ new
uniform. The Romulan Star Navy had implemented sweeping reorganization in the
wake of its Dominion War losses, and the last of these changes had finally been
put into place. The design itself, an enamel-encrusted jacket over sleek,
form-fitting black, hearkened back to more traditional
themes; and, as with most high-quality clothing, it especially flattered those
who were themselves well-made.
He allowed himself to briefly
appreciate the fact that she was well-made … and well-maintained, in
every sense of the word. She read it in his face, and inclined her head in
acceptance of the compliment.
“‘Not the
least obeisance made she; not a minute stopped or
stayed she.’”
She recognized the quote, modified
slightly to fit and suit her. After a moment, T’Laris gave the only response
she could.
A perfectly Romulan smile in place,
she told him, “‘Nevermore.’”